


From Our Ruin

by jonsasnow



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Fluff, jonsa, super divergent, topsy turvy world where things might not make sense but we go with it anyways
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-20
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2019-02-04 18:57:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12777384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jonsasnow/pseuds/jonsasnow
Summary: Theirs is a past rooted in betrayal, misunderstandings, and pride.Now, Jon is the Targaryen Prince, destined to be Queen Daenerys' heir to the Iron Throne, and Sansa is the Queen of the North. He longs for her in a way he can't convey, but Sansa is determined to hate him for what he did to her.How could she forgive the man who had broken her heart?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! 
> 
> So this is a story I wrote a really really long time ago (over a year in fact) and I've just edited it and now I'm putting it up. Some of the things in here I just made up, but it's fanfiction so whatever lol xD
> 
> Hope you like it! Thanks for reading!

The raven arrives in the early morn. Jon is readying himself for the day, sleep still heavy on his eyes, and he can feel his muscles protesting the movement. The young steward, barely a day above ten and one, shuffles into his chambers with the letter in hand. Once delivered to Jon, the boy stammers out his, ‘goodbye, Lord Targaryen,’ before retreating as quickly as he had entered. Jon’s reputation at the Wall preceded him and those who did not know him prior to his arrival in King’s Landing looked on him with fear and admiration. He does not believe he deserves either, though he had not the mind to quell their nerves. Fear and admiration left him at peace with his thoughts.

Taking a seat by the hearth, Jon runs his finger across the seal. The familiarity of it brings him a bittersweet warmth that spreads across his skin. He quickly pulls the letter from its envelope and reads the content with a smile threatening to split his face in two. His smiles are hard won and rare yet for his sister in the North, it comes freely and as easily as breathing. However, Jon rereads the letter once more and the smile disappears as he really takes in her words.

_Jon,_

_You are an utter git. Stop calling her that. She may be Queen of the North but she is still our Sansa, or has King’s Landing addled your brain too? Lucky for you I am to ride with Sansa southbound and can come knock some sense back into you, brother._

_See you in a fortnight._

_Arya_

She was never his Sansa, as she was to Arya, or to Robb, Bran and Rickon, and though his heart warms at the knowledge she is alive and well, their last meeting left Jon wondering if they will ever be as close as he still is with Arya. It mayhaps be fate that his true parentage was revealed to her first -- with Sansa, he is her cousin, true. He wishes he could mend their relationship. Following the war, following her coronation as Queen of the North, Jon had hoped to return home to Winterfell but Dany’s need for him here in King’s Landing rooted him down. His plans to reconcile thwarted and the moons swiftly passed between their last meeting till Jon suspects there is nothing left between the two cousins but hurt and regret. 

Closing the letter, Jon fits it back into the envelope and places it on his desk in the adjoining solar. He is due to meet Dany soon in the Great Hall to break their fasts but he allows himself a second. He crosses the room and opens a drawer where he keeps it. There, hidden from sight, is a small square cloth and stitched into its corner are two wolves dancing playfully. He rubs the stitching with the pad of his thumb and smiles fondly at the memory. 

_“I wish to the old Gods and the new that you don’t have to go,” she whispers, as if speaking any louder would tempt the fates. “I have only found you and now I fear I might lose you.”_

_“I will come back,” he says, though he cannot promise her he will, so he hastily adds, “I will try.”_

_“I guess that is all I can ask of you,” she sighs. “But…” Sansa falters and pink tinges her cheeks. “But I…”_

_“What is it?” Jon asks and he places his hand over hers in comfort._

_She pulls back to reach for something behind her and places it in his hand. She closes his fist around it and smiles shyly. “I made you something. It’s only small. I didn’t have the time but… I wish you to carry it with you when you go… when you go past the Wall. To remember where you came from - Targaryen or not, your home is Winterfell.”_

_Jon opens his fist and a smile so genuine and real breaks across his face. “It’s beautiful, Sansa.”_

_“Come home,” is all she says in response._

Jon never did come home. In fact, that was the last he saw of her till her coronation and that reunion did not happen as he would have wanted. To others, Sansa Stark looked every bit a Tully woman, with her fiery red hair and eyes as blue as the summer sky, but when he saw her that day and the glare she fixed upon him, Jon saw only the cold gaze of winter. 

With a sigh, Jon slips the cloth back under his ledgers and makes his way to the Great Hall, Ghost padding along by his heel. The wolf had been by his side since day one and together they had clawed their way back to the living; if he must stay in King's Landing to the end of his days, he at least has his most trusted friend with him.

"Good morning, nephew," Dany says with a soft smile, lips pulling ever so slightly that if Jon hadn't come to know her so well, he would have missed it. She is hiding something, he realises. "I pray you slept well?" 

"Aye, your grace," Jon says as he comes to sit beside the queen. "Lord Tyrion." He nods his head towards the last remaining Lannister, which leaves a bitter taste on his lips in spite of the amicable nature of their friendship. He had vowed many moons past to kill every single Lannister born to the Seven Kingdoms and he would have if not for Sansa's praise of the man. Simply knowing Tyrion Lannister had saved Sansa's life was enough for Jon to stay his longsword in its sheath. 

"Good," Dany nods and laughs when Tyrion whispers something to her. Jon is evidently the topic of their amusement this morning, though he knows not why in the slightest. "You will need your strength. We all have much to prepare before your cousins arrive this afternoon."

A chill runs down his spine, a mix of pleasure and trepidation, and Jon looks up at his aunt-queen. "Your grace? I was told they were to arrive in the morrow." 

"As was I," Dany says calmly but lilac eyes betray her enjoyment in his surprise. "I received a raven at first light of their speedy arrival. They should be here soon." 

"I see," he says slowly. "I… I must prepare. I beg your leave, your grace." Jon stands up, the scrape of his wooden chair on the ground echoing loudly in the empty hall, and he bows his head to the queen.

Tyrion laughs and Dany's smile now is more pronounced than before. "But Jon, you have only arrived. You must break your fast." 

"I…" Jon pauses and picks up a roll of bread. "I will as I walk."

"As you wish, nephew," Dany says. 

Jon bows again and leaves the Great Hall, plastering his back to the cool stone walls as soon as the door shuts behind him. His heart beats noisily in his chest and Ghost nudges his hand with his nose. Jon absentmindedly feeds the bread roll to his furry companion as his mind races over the million things he had wanted – _needed_ to prepare before seeing her again. The speeches he composed in his mind seemed inadequate now that her arrival is imminent. What apology could Jon offer the Queen of the North without sounding as pathetic as he feels. 


	2. Chapter 2

It is a festive occasion and the city is alive with celebration. People spill out onto the streets as she rides through with Brienne in the front and Arya at her back. They are her Queensguard and she trusts no one more than the two women. Brienne had pulled her from the clutches of death when Sansa had lost faith in men to save her and Arya is her sister, her last living sibling. They will protect her, she knows this with all of her heart, but fear still grips her. King's Landing may be under a new rule, a woman much like her who clawed past men for survival, but the city holds much pain and heartache that Sansa cannot bear the weight of those memories. She holds tightly to the smile on her lips, though it does not reach her eyes, and she rides on.

_The closer Sansa is to the Red Keep, the more she realises there is a fear there that is beyond the memories that plague this city. It is a fear of seeing Jon, her once half-brother, now cousin. Sansa does not know how she will react – will it be with relief that he is alive and well or will the anger fill her as it often does when thinking about the man? Arya tries to tell her of what happened after the war with the Others, of Jon's injuries, but she is not of the mind to listen. Many name days passed by and still she had waited for him. And then when the war ended, Sansa had convinced herself that he was dead. Jon would never leave her like that unless he was not of the living, but to find out through a raven not even from Jon himself that he is not only alive but living in King's Landing – no, there is nothing anyone can say to alleviate the betrayal._

_Queen Daenerys greets her warmly even though it is the first time they are meeting but they have corresponded so frequently that Sansa feels as if she knows the white-haired woman for much longer. She allows the embrace and smiles down. There is always wariness when a Targaryen is involved and Sansa is used to mistrusting others, but the queen would be a much more powerful enemy and the North cannot afford another war. Sansa is smart enough to offer praises and courtesies to placate the egos of others._

_The queen is far smaller than Sansa had expected, much more slender, but Sansa knows this is the same woman who birthed dragons and brought hellfire to her enemies. Sansa does not feel fear however in her presence. Jon would never allow anything to happen to her, and even though she has not seen him in far too long, she knows he will always protect the Starks._

_And perhaps Sansa focuses on Queen Daenerys a little too intently; perhaps she tries to preoccupy herself with getting to know the Mother of Dragons so she may not have to look upon the face that brings her so much joy and pain she can hardly breathe with him so near._

_Sansa accepts as Queen Daenerys hooks her arm through Sansa's and she follows obediently, but try as she does to listen, the sounds of Arya's laughter rings out from behind her. Sansa does not look. She cannot look. She cannot allow her resolve to falter, not even for a second, so she tries to listen._

_He finds her at the godswood at first daybreak the next morn. Sansa senses him before he reaches her and she braces herself for what is bound to be a confrontation. When Jon does not say anything, presumably waiting for her to finish her prayer, Sansa sighs and stands up. She turns to face him. His grey eyes are as solemn as she remembers but there are new lines along his face, a scar that curves down the side, and his lips are pursed tightly together as if afraid if he speaks she will disappear._

_“Lord Targaryen,” she says with a respectful bow of her head._

_“Sansa,” he says her name and she remembers to steel herself against him._

_“It will be a fine day for a coronation,” Sansa says as she would to any other lord or lady of the court and she notices the formality of her words brings out a frown to his lips._

_“I’m sorry,” Jon finally says but it is an apology that is much too late. “I wanted… I tried to come home but…”_

_“But nothing, Lord Targaryen,” Sansa says, ice in her veins and winter in her heart. She is soon to be Queen of the North. Her place is in Winterfell and – “your place is here now. This is your home.”_

_Something flashes across his eyes, turning the greys to lilac and in that briefest of seconds, Sansa knows with certainty that he is a Targaryen, but then he is reaching for her, his large hands enveloping her own. “This will never be my home. Home is Winterfell. Home is with you… and Arya... and where our family is laid to rest.”_

_“Your family is here,” Sansa asserts more fiercely as she snatches her hands from his. “You are a Targaryen, Jon.”_

_“And I am a Stark,” he replies just as fiercely._

_“But a Targaryen first,” Sansa tells him and she sighs. “You are not my brother, only…” Her voice falters but Sansa is strong. She did not survive the war to break here. “Only my cousin and your obligation is not in Winterfell.”_

_Her words are final and Jon must sense this because he drops his hands to his side. He looks at her and there is so much emotion in his eyes that Sansa is the first to look away. He left her; he let her believe him dead for so long. She will never forgive him for it. Sansa must remember this._

_“As you wish,” Jon says slowly and then begins to retreat, adding quietly, his voice barely above the whisper of the wind, “your grace.”_

“Sansa!” Arya calls as she pokes her with the hilt of Needle. Sansa frowns but her sister only shrugs. “Where did your head wander off to? I have been calling your name for a while now.” 

“A bad memory,” Sansa answers honestly. This time Arya frowns and she knows her sister wants to help her, fix the broken Lady of Winterfell. But Sansa is not a little bird. She is a wolf and she cannot be fixed. 

“We are almost there,” Arya says instead. She knows better than to try to pull anything more out of Sansa, for which she is grateful. “That is what I was trying to tell you.”

“Good,” is all Sansa can think to say because her head is swimming with memories and anxieties and fears. 

When Dany first sent the raven, revealing that Sansa is needed in King’s Landing urgently, she immediately fears the worst. Jon is dead. But the raven for Arya arrives the next day and she knows who it’s from without having to ask. He is still alive and Sansa breathes again. Her worries, however, lead her to wonder what the Dragon Queen could want of her. What is so urgent, so sensitive that she cannot write it in her letter. Sansa frets that perhaps Dany wants the North after all, but both Brienne and Arya tell her she is silly to think so. To claim the North would be to provoke her nephew’s ire and wrath and the people are more enamoured by Prince Jon Targaryen, the former Stark bastard, than they are with the Mother of Dragons, who they still fear. To the Seven Kingdoms, Jon is one of them. He is a son born to this earth and raised by the winter. He fought to protect them. Dany may have freed them from the Lannisters, but she is still a foreigner in their eyes. She is not one of them like her nephew is.

That is why she keeps him in King’s Landing, Sansa thinks but as quickly as the thought comes, she pushes it away. Dany is not so uncompromising. Jon could have left. He could have written. She will not forgive him. 

“Lady Sansa, we approach the gates,” Brienne tells her, warns her, and Sansa nods her thanks. She can see the walls rise up as their horses move closer. She remembers a time so long past that the memory is hazy in her mind’s eye when all she had ever desired was to escape to the capital. She dreamed of southern knights with painted armours and sweet words. She believed them real men, honourable men. What a fool she had been! 

Honour has no place in a city like King’s Landing. Honourable men had their heads cut off. Honourable men died and left their children to the ravaging of the world.

Sansa inhales sharply and places a hand to her heart. It beats so fast she worries she is dying but she is simply having an episode and Sansa knows it will pass. She focuses on her breathing and pictures her father, her brothers and her mother. They all stand in a line, smiling and waving at her. They tell her how proud they are of her. They tell her she is missed most dearly but it is not her time to part. They tell her to cherish and protect Arya. They tell her to be strong and brave. 

Feeling her heartbeat slow to a steady rhythm, Sansa drops her hand back to the reigns and ignores the curious looks she is getting from her sister. She has never told a soul of her episodes. She does not want to appear weak. The North needs a strong leader and Sansa must be that for them. She must be that for Arya too. She is not the only Stark to have demons. 

They travel through the city with the City Watch. It is alarming to see them but the black and red they wear puts her at ease. They are not serving the Lannisters but the Targaryens. She knows she will not be harmed again in this city. She knows that for as long as Jon is here, she is safe. It is a truth she despises but one she also takes comfort in. 

Once at the Red Keep, Sansa dismounts with Brienne’s help. She does not need it but she is told she does not dismount quite so elegantly by Arya so she accepts the help. Dany steps forward and the two queens embrace. 

“My sister-queen,” Daenerys says, pulling back. “I am most pleased to receive you once more in King’s Landing.” 

“It is my pleasure, your grace,” Sansa replies with a smile. She may be Queen of the North but Dany’s power is still mightier than hers. Her armies are triple what the North have. Winter had not been kind to her people. 

“I regret to inform you all that my nephew has disappeared,” Daenerys says with a small smile. “I know how you must have been looking forward to reuniting with your cousin.”

“Lord Targaryen is a very secretive man. The servants say he has been running to and fro all morning,” Lord Tyrion tells them before taking Sansa’s hand. “Welcome back, Lady Sansa.” 

 

“It is nice to see you again, Lord Tyrion. I hope you are well,” Sansa says with a fond smile. In a time where being a Stark could have you killed, Lord Tyrion showed her kindness and respect. It was the first time in many moons that she had felt truly human. She will always be in his debt for that. 

“Do you know when Jon – er, Lord Targaryen will return, your grace?” Arya asks, stepping up to stand beside Sansa. She is in a light grey tunic and breeches, Needle strapped to her waist and a longsword strapped to the other side. A lady of Winterfell is required at all times to be appropriately dressed but as part of Sansa’s Queensguard, Arya is the exception – as she always is. Sansa herself is in a blue gown the shade of her eyes that curves in at the neckline as a southerner would wear. The light silk material allows the air to cool her in the warmth of the south but the grey lace embroidery that covers her shoulders and arms makes her feel like a northerner. 

“I expect he will meet us in the Great Hall for lunch,” Daenerys answers. “Do not worry, Lady Arya. I know my nephew is most looking forward to seeing you all.” 

Arya bows her head with a smile. It is a strange sort of feeling to see Arya’s kinship with Jon. Theirs is a friendship that Sansa has never known. Brienne serves her and Arya is tethered to her in a similar fashion. But not Arya and Jon. They are true siblings and the best of friends. Sansa admits she has always been jealous of them. In the days she had Jon to herself, when news of Arya were rarer than a three-eyed raven, when they believed the Starks to be all but dead, Sansa deluded herself into thinking they were as close. It made his betrayal hurt worse than she knew was possible. 

“If it pleases you, Lady Sansa,” Daenerys says as they begin their walk into the Red Keep, “we can adjourn tomorrow in my solar to discuss state matters. You must be exhausted from your journey and I do not wish to exhaust you further.” 

“It does, your grace,” Sansa says. She is anxious to know what state matters requires her to personally journey to the Crownlands but she admits she is tired. The weary ache of riding can be felt in her bones and she looks most forward to retiring for the day, though that is an hour far yet from now.


	3. Chapter 3

The heat of the smithery and the warmth of the southern summer causes beads of perspiration to slide down his face. Jon wipes away at what he can with the back of his hand but dragon blood or not, he is a northern man and nothing will ever change that. His blood runs as cold as the snow and his eyes are the grey of the sky in the dead of winter – yet he feels as if he is scaling the length of the Wall trying to convince Sansa of this truth. She sees only the Targaryen in him; she believes he has abandoned the North, abandoned her. Jon wishes she knew that that is an impossibility. As the North is in his bones, so too is Sansa Stark. 

_The corridors are quiet. It is not peace he hears but the silence of the dead. Jon should feel more relief in being home; he should find more comfort in the walls of Winterfell, but he finds only the ghosts of what should be. His family are long gone and their deaths will be for nought if the Others breach the Wall. His victory here at Winterfell does not taste as sweet with the knowledge that more blood will be spilled in the coming moons. Jon is tired of blood. He is tired of bleeding._

_There is a soft knock on his door. At first he believes the castle is playing tricks on him but a second later, it comes again and he knows he hasn’t imagined it. Jon does not need to ask who it is. He rushes instantly towards the door and lets her in. Wordlessly, Sansa pads across his chamber room to his bed and slides in under the furs. She pulls it up to her chin and stares at him._

_“It is too quiet,” she says in explanation._

_Jon nods and joins her. He leaves a respectable distance between them now. He must remember she is not his sister and people might talk if she were found in his chambers._

_“I don’t remember it being this quiet,” she continues to speak. “There was always noise. Always someone talking, laughing – children running through the corridors. A soft howl of a wolf. Now I… I hear nothing.”_

_“It doesn’t feel like Winterfell,” Jon agrees and he heaves a sigh, trying to breathe past the knot in his throat._

_Seconds pass between them as they sit a prisoner to their own thoughts. Jon thinks of Robb. He thinks of how Robb used to sneak into his chambers when the moon was highest in the sky and how the two would fight imaginary monsters out in the cold of night. He thinks of Bran and watching him climb the highest turret, giddy with pride and sick with worry. He thinks of Rickon and of pulling him from the stone walls before he tries to follow his big brother. Then he thinks of Arya. His rebellious, wonderful Arya. Although Jon is closer in age to Robb, he always felt closest to her. They had a desire in them both to prove themselves, a desperate yearning to break free of the shackles of their circumstance. Jon prays to the old Gods and the new that Arya is still alive._

_Glancing surreptitiously to his left, Jon thinks of Sansa next but he has no such memories to fan his revelry. As children, she had been kept from him. The shining light of Catelyn Stark’s world, the southern princess in the North. How could she soil her reputation by playing pretend with the Stark bastard?_

_Jon wonders if Catelyn would disapprove of them now, her sitting here in his bed. He feels guilty for allowing it but he needs the company as much, if not more, than she does. He does not want to be alone tonight in this castle._

_“I wonder if it will ever feel like home again,” Sansa says to break the silence. She does not turn to look at him; her eyes are fixed on the wall, her mind a world away._

_“It will,” Jon tells her with certainty, though he does not feel it wholly, but he is determined to soothe her pain in any way he can._

_“How can you say that?” Sansa asks. “How do you know?”_

_“Because,” Jon starts to say before reaching out to slip his hand in hers. He squeezes and forces her to look at him. “Because we will rebuild Winterfell together and we will make it home again. We will raise the Stark banners so high that all the lands will see.”_

_“Your men think you a very serious man, Lord Targaryen,” Sansa says after a moment, and then she laughs at his grimace of hearing the title spoken out loud. “But they don’t see what I see in you.”_

_“And what is that, Lady Stark?” he asks with a teasing smile._

_She raises one hand and traces the edges of his lips where they turn upwards with her thumb. “That you believe in the sun after the storm.” Her hand stays along his jaw and her eyes flicker up to his own. For a second, Jon wonders if his heart has stopped beating, but Sansa is drawing her hand back and everything once more rushes into focus._

_“We should get some sleep,” he says without looking at her. He doesn’t think he should._

_“Yes,” is her response and he feels her settle down into the bed. Jon turns and blows out the candle, descending the room into total darkness. He rolls on his side and faces away from her. He feels unsettled and uneasy but he doesn’t know why. He does know one thing, however, and that is he will not find sleep to come so easily tonight._

Jon wonders if she thinks back to those days of just the two of them. He wonders how she can remember them and still not believe he is loyal to her and the North. 

“It may not be my finest work, m’lord,” the man says.

“Do as you can,” Jon assures him. “You have already done more than I expected.” 

“It is not a difficult task, m’lord,” he tells him. “Only a rushed task.” 

Jon offers the man a rare half-smile. 

Upon realising that Sansa would be arriving today instead of the morrow, Jon knew he could not see her again without proving how true he is to the North. He cannot swear fealty to her without angering his aunt but he can show her. He can make her see that his loyalty is with the Queen of the North and if she asks it of him, he would fight for her. 

It is a small concession for what he did to her but Jon needs to do something. 

The hours pass slowly by and soon the sun is dipping into the earth, shadowing King’s Landing in dusk. He has missed her arrival and he has missed lunch. Dany will be angry with him, as will Arya, and he suspects his tardiness will not appeal much to his case with Sansa, but Jon cannot leave without what he came for. 

"Lord Targaryen…"

Jon winces at the title. He wonders if he will ever be used to it, if he will ever feel himself a Targaryen and not an imposter. A wolf in dragon's hide. Jon has his doubts. 

"Is it done?" he asks and the man hands him the pendant attached to a long, sleek silver chain. For the time he was given, the blacksmith truly delivered. The pendant is a round oval black metal and carved into its body is a direwolf standing on its hind legs, paws outstretched ready to attack. He feels it is a true representation of her. 

"Thank you, Gendry," Jon says, looking up from the pendant to stare at the younger man. He looks more boy than man in some glances but his brutish build deceives his age. "You will be paid handsomely for this."

"It is my pleasure, milord," he says and bows. That is also something Jon will not get used to. No one ever bowed to him at the Wall. Even as Lord Commander. 

As soon as Jon reaches the Red Keep, he is being dragged away before he can find her. He is relieved however that it is not to be seated in another council meeting or to oversee some menial issue in the city, but Jon is being pulled – nay, dragged away by his sister. Arya’s dark brows are furrowed forward and she is mumbling dark words under her breath that Jon cannot hear but he does not need to because he can guess. 

Jon allows himself to be pulled along and Arya leads him down corridors, pathways and then finally they emerge in the garden, clear of any eavesdropping birds, for there are many in this gods-forsaken city. He has lived here too long to not be aware of them. 

“Are you small-minded, brother?” Arya demands once she is sure they are alone. Jon had once thought himself paranoid but something in Arya’s past had made her more so than anyone he has ever met. It concerns him, worries away at him, but she will not talk about Braavos. She will not talk about anything save the present and the future. 

“You speak out of term, Lady Stark,” Jon japes and Arya’s scowl darkens. 

“Off it, Jon,” Arya says with a flourish of her hand. “I thought you wanted to make amends with Sansa but you don’t even come to greet her then you don’t show for lunch – if anyone else, it would be of the greatest dishonour.” 

Jon is silenced by her words and he lets loose a low sigh. He turns and finds a seat on a nearby bench and runs one hand through his curls. “It wasn’t my intention, believe me.”

“I of anyone in the Seven Kingdoms want you to to reconcile because mayhaps you will be permitted to return home – no, Jon, let me finish,” Arya says to silence him. “You know, Sansa and I have never been as close as sisters ought but she _is_ my only sister and her reasons are just.” Jon lowers his head with renewed guilt and shame. “Three years the war with the Others lasted. Three years she waited by the gates for you and then… You let her believe you dead for too many moons, Jon! And what for?” 

“And I have regretted it for every day since,” Jon tells her with a fierce sincerity that Arya must hear in his voice as she nods, a miniscule movement, easily missed if one did not know her. “I wish I could tell you something, anything worth the pain I caused but there is nothing…” He trails off, unsure of what to say. 

“Tell me,” Arya urges him.

Jon looks up and into her eyes. It is a rare sight for Arya Stark but the greys have softened for him and it is a side of her no one ever sees. He suspects she saves them for only him and Sansa. 

“I was struck,” Jon says slowly, trying his best not to relive the moment but it flashes before his eyes nevertheless. Some nights he can still feel the blade pierce into his skin, the warmth of his own blood pooling under him. Those nights, he does not sleep. “I thought myself so close to death I wanted to welcome it but the Night’s King lived still and I could not die and let him march towards Winterfell. That was when...” He closes his eyes and exhales out. “Queen Daenerys found me. She had Drogon with her. The Night’s King held me to him but I told her to kill us both anyways.” Arya audibly gasped; this is why Jon does not retell this story. Only Dany knows the truth of that cold night.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Arya asks.

“I’m alive so the rest does not matter,” Jon tells her with a shrug. “If the people knew she did not choose to save me, even though it had been my decision, they might not rally behind her as they do today.” 

Arya nods and allows him to continue. 

“She found my body and took it back to the Red Keep,” Jon says, telling the story as it had been told to him. “She held out hope that my Dragon blood would save me but perhaps as I am only half Targaryen or perhaps it was the wound inflicted on me by the Night’s King but it took many moons for me to heal… Whatever the reason, I’m alive because of her. I owe her my life and my fealty.” He sighs then and looks away. “So when she asked me to court Lady Obara to secure ties with Dorne, I could not see a way to refuse…”

“But then why could you not write to Sansa of this? Simply tell her that you live?” Arya persists, frustration evident in her voice. “Do you think so lowly of her to think she wouldn’t understand duty and honour? It’s Sansa! She only knows of such.” 

Jon smiles in spite of himself, though it is bereft of humour. “It is honour that I didn’t,” he explains. “ _Her_ honour.” 

“I don’t understand.”

“The rumours of my parentage spread quickly in the North,” Jon says. “As did another rumour. One of Sansa and I. Of the future Queen of the North and her bastard cousin... spending many nights together.” He lets a low growl of irritation bubble up. “And so they all warned me. The ravens were being watched, people were waiting for any weakness in the new queens. For me to write to her while trying to court another woman amidst the rumours? She would be dishonoured in name and reputation. I couldn’t do that to Sansa, not after how much she has sacrificed for Winterfell to be returned to the the Starks. Your sister is made to be queen and I will not stand in her way.”

“Jon…” Arya tries to say something but she seems at a loss. 

“The rumours are false,” Jon tells her. “Sansa did spend nights in my chambers but only – only because… Winterfell after the Boltons was a gravesite, Arya. It was not the home you remembered or the home you know now.”

“You don’t need to explain what happened to me,” Arya says quietly as she takes his hand and squeezes tightly. “You are both alive and I don’t care whether the rumours are true or if they are false.” Something occurs to Arya as a light flickers in her eyes and she is removing her hands from his. “What of Lady Obera then? You are not betrothed I take it?”

“No,” Jon says and laughs a little. “Lady Obara is much like you. We tried to get to know one another for the sake of the alliance but she does not love me and she says she will not be married off. It is a relief for I didn’t love her either.” 

“You want to marry for love?” Arya asks with a teasing smile. “I didn’t expect such a sentiment from you, brother.”

“I don’t oppose it,” he answers and stands up. “But I don’t believe it is a luxury afforded to a man such as me.” Arya opens her mouth to contradict him but he pulls her up before she can. “Come. It’s almost time for the feast. You will have to get dressed. A lady of Winterfell cannot wear breeches to a feast, Arya.” 

That effectively shuts her up about marriage and opens her to an exhausted topic of courtly conducts and where Arya believes they can be shoved. Jon is thankful for the distraction. 


	4. Chapter 4

Needlework is a task so ingrained in her very muscles that Sansa often finds her mind to wander while her fingers work endlessly, pulling and threading shapes and figures into the cloth. When she looks down at her hands, frustration escapes her in the manner of a very inelegant curse and Sansa casts the needlework aside. She is alone in her chambers, having excused herself to rest before the feast Queen Daenerys had prepared for their arrival tonight. She had wished to lose herself in the monotonous task, wanting to stitch something for Arya, a replica of Nymeria, but the greys that should have turned into white turned black. One direwolf turned into two curled protectively around each other. The black direwolf wrapping itself around the much smaller reddish grey one.

Sansa is not stupid. She knows that once more her mind had wandered to a memory she long wished to repel, but it stays. Stubborn as a wolf. 

_It is the second night on the road. Sansa can still see the Eyrie if she looks back but she has not since they left. She wishes to place as much distance from the place and her as she can. She fears if she looks back she might see Petyr running towards her with the guards, ready to recapture Alayne Stone and throw her in the skycell – or worse straight back into Petyr’s arms as he continues to parade her as his daughter. Sansa shudders at the memory and turns in her tent. She has been alone for so many moons she should be used to it but the aching loneliness in her chest beats heavily, thudding harder than it had ever before, because it knows it does not need to be alone any longer._

_Sansa sneaks from her tent and into the one next to hers. A rush of metal slicing through the air has her pulling her cloak tightly in fear as Jon stares at her with wide grey eyes, a blade in hand. “Sansa, what are you doing?”_

_“I… I can’t sleep,” she answers honestly. Her voice quivers and she knows he will hear it and believe she is wrestling with nightmares. Sansa will not tell him she merely needs the comfort of another body next to hers. It is a dishonourable thought, especially when to everyone else he is still her half-brother, but since he confided to her a sennight into his stay at the Eyrie that he isn’t, Sansa surprised herself in how well she has taken to it. Perhaps it is the blessing of their childhood. She had never been close to Jon. Her mother had made sure of it._

_Jon doesn’t say anything but sheaths his blade and places it away. He pulls the furs back and Sansa rushes forward. The cot is small and hardly wide enough for two bodies let alone one but she has always been small and somehow she fits perfectly beside him. Jon wraps the fur around her, the feel of his hand brushing against her waist making her squirm, but then Jon is pulling his arm and his body back as far from her as he can manage in the cot and she is grateful for the distance._

_“Good night, Sansa,” he whispers, the ghost of his words on the nape of her neck. Sansa shivers but it isn’t from the cold._

_It’s the first night she sleeps soundly._

“Lady Sansa?” 

“Yes, Brienne,” Sansa answers and turns away from the needlework. She cannot bear to look at it. It is a memory she can no longer have, like so much of her past. She is happy to serve her people, happy to have Arya alive and well in the walls of Winterfell, happy for Spring and peace in the lands, but she wonders if she will ever be happy for _her_. She wonders selfishly if she will ever find that kind of joy again. 

“Your grace, it is time for the feast.” 

Sansa sighs and stands. “I am coming. Just one second please.” 

“Yes, your grace. I could send for a maid if you wish?”

“That will not be necessary,” Sansa asserts, not for the first time. She has spent many-a-nights on the road without the luxury of a handmaid to tend to her beck and call. Even so many name days after, Sansa still prefers to tend to herself if she can. She knows as queen it is only customary that people will fuss over her but she takes liberties where she can, freedoms when no one is looking. 

Sansa sits in front of the vanity and pulls her hair loose. A curtain of red falls over her shoulders and she sees for a moment, her mother. The Tully red. It has been both her saviour and her undoing in the past but she wears it proud now, tied together in the signature plait of the North. No longer does Sansa pretend she is a southron lady; no, she is a wolf – wild and proud. 

As Sansa exits her chambers, Brienne is waiting. The older woman has stood as her guard and confidante for many moons so Sansa does not take offense at what she says next. “He is there, your grace,” Brienne tells her in a low whisper. “He has arrived.” Sansa tenses; she knows who Brienne is referring to and the questions from afore are flooding back. Has he been avoiding her? Or has he simply forgotten about her? 

Almost as if on cue, Sansa turns the corner and is faced with a large direwolf. It whimpers as it rushes forward and nudges her hand. She smiles and throws her arms around his neck. “Oh Ghost, how I have missed you, old friend,” she says into his fur. Sansa stays wordlessly for a minute, breathing in the scent of pine and something so familiar she aches. “You do not belong here,” she whispers. “You belong in the North.” Ghost whimpers once more in agreement and Sansa pulls back. She laughs as she brushes the white hairs that stick to her grey gown away. She would gladly pick fur from her clothes for the rest of her days if she could have Ghost back in Winterfell. 

Finally, Sansa stands and she continues to follow Brienne down to the Great Hall with Ghost padding along behind them. Noise filters out from the doors before they reach it and Sansa steels herself for what is to come. She is Queen of the North, not a little bird trapped in the Red Keep no longer and not a bastard daughter in the Eyrie. She is Sansa Stark. 

The doors are pulled open and Sansa is led to her seat beside Daenerys in the upper dais. Ghost leaves her side and disappears into the crowd. She turns from trying to find the wolf and nods in greeting to the white-haired queen. “Your grace,” she says. “You look beautiful.” And she does in true. A sky blue gown flows down her body, setting into the curves that Sansa is most envious of. 

“As do you, my sister-queen,” Daenerys says with a smile. “I see my nephew has decided to grace us with his company this eve.” Sansa turns a little too quickly to where Daenerys has gestured and sure enough there standing in the far corner is Jon and he is smiling as Ghost rushes toward him. Her heart beats faster and her palms begin to sweat at the sight. She both yearns for him to speak to her and for him to disappear. 

Jon is dressed in black with splashes of red, the picture of a Targaryen prince. She wants to resent him for it, wants to scream at the maidens staring a little too intently at him, that he is a Stark – a wolf and not a dragon – but Daenerys touches her arm and Sansa startles. 

“Jon is a fine man,” she says. “A hero. Some say the true saviour of this land…”

“But they know you saved them from war, your grace,” Sansa tells her in assurance, though she firmly believes it was Jon that saved them. Mad as she may be at him, there is no denying he is a hero.

Daenerys smiles. “I don’t say this out of envy, Sansa. It is simply the truth. The people admire him... and the maidens love him.” Sansa’s heart dips low into her stomach. “He is after all a handsome man. And if I do not bear children, Jon will be my heir.”

Sansa does not reply. She doesn’t know what to say. 

“But their affections are all for nought,” Daenerys tells her with a forlorn sigh. “I fear my nephew does not have eyes for any and I dare not arrange another marriage for him.” 

She still says nothing. _Another marriage?_

“Oh Missandei,” Daenerys greets and speaks in low tones to her handmaiden but it is unnecessary as Sansa is no longer listening. The noise of the feast drowns out and she is left alone to her thoughts, thoughts of Jon, of when and how he could have been betrothed. Of who he could have been betrothed to? Was the lady here tonight? Why was she not informed? 

Sansa tries to be present for Queen Daenerys, to be gracious for the feast that she had prepared, but her mind has taken flight. She can no longer focus on much of what is before her; she tries but the noise of her thoughts is too loud, too forceful in their weight. 

“Lady Stark,” Lord Tyrion says to her. “You seem unwell.” 

Sansa smiles and lies comfortably. “My lord, I am merely tired from the journey. It is nothing more.” 

“Mayhaps you wish to retire early, my dear?” Daenerys questions and Sansa nods. “Then I bid you a good night, Lady Sansa. In the morrow, we will break fast in my solar and after we can discuss state matters.”

“Yes, your grace,” Sansa says, standing. She bows and allows Brienne’s hand to lead her away. She knows it is futile to argue with Brienne, and though she is likely much more capable than her commander at navigating the Red Keep, she finds comfort in her presence. The Iron Throne may be under a different leader but it is still King’s Landing where honour has no place and deception is only a stone’s throw away. 

She is led silently through the corridors, passing servants as they bow to the Queen of the North, and she knows she will never be comforted by the kind of respect that comes hand-in-hand with a title. The Sansa that had lived here a lifetime ago mayhaps desired it, wanted to be queen of a court of humble and doting servants, but the Sansa that lives now wants respect only if it is due. She has seen many before her use their titles to betray loyalties for selfish gain; she will not be one of them. She would rather the ire of her people than the complacency of them. 

“Your grace?” 

Sansa looks up and realises they had stopped walking and were now standing in front of her chamber door. She smiles and places a hand on Brienne’s forearm. “I thank you, Brienne.” 

“For what may I ask, Lady Sansa?” 

“For having been by my side for so many years. I would not be here today without you and you have served my lady mother most well. She would have been proud of your loyalty to her family.”

Brienne tenses and she knows it is simply how the older woman feels her emotions, so she stays silent and waits. 

“Then I must thank you too, my lady.” Brienne steps back and bows, hand on her hilt. “There is no greater man or woman I would rather serve than the Queen of the North.” 

Sansa smiles and bids her commander a good night before retiring to her chambers. A handmaiden awaits with a bath already drawn and Sansa allows her to unlace her gown. It is close to the hour before Sansa is alone in her chambers and she finds that sleep does not find her as she lies awake. She does not think she sleeps at all but she feels startled awake when there comes a knock at early dusk. Instinctively, she reaches for her dagger, always close by underneath the pillow, and steps out from underneath her furs. 

“It is late, I know,” his voice comes through, muffled by the door and low so it is for only her ears. “You might already be asleep so I will not knock twice but if you hear me, Sansa, I beg of… I beg that you will grant me an audience, your grace.” 

Sansa could not answer and let him believe her asleep but she is reaching for the door before she can think of all the reasons, of which she knows there are plenty, why she should not. “Lord Targaryen, you should not be here.” His face does not betray his emotions and Sansa cannot read him as she used to. It has been too long perhaps, for the familiarity between the two has now disappeared. 

“I apologise, your grace,” Jon says. “I merely wish to greet your arrival in King’s Landing with a present but I did not find a chance to speak with you at the feast and I am afraid my dear aunt will keep you all to herself tomorrow.” 

Sansa hesitates, her hand resting on the side of the door as she wrestles with whether she should shut it in his face or let him enter. “Please, my lord. If someone were to see you at this hour outside my chambers, there will be talk…” Jon makes to leave but she pulls the door wider. “Come in.” The surprise is evident but he walks in nonetheless. 

“I have sent your guards away till the hour of the bat. Until then, Ghost is watching the corridor,” Jon tells her but she does not fear for her safety when he is near. She may be angry, she may even hate him but she knows he will never let harm befall her so long as he is near. Sansa knows she is naive to still believe that when he had betrayed her so but gods save her, she still does. 

“What is it that you wish to give me, my lord?” Sansa asks, her voice is curt and cold, keeping the anxiety she feels deep within. He does not need to know; he does not have the right to know.

Jon breathes in deeply and steps towards her. “First, I would like to apologise. I should have been there to greet you at your arrival. I wish I had been,” he says. “But… no, it doesn’t matter why.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls something out. “Sansa?” The sound of her name pulls her towards him and she steps forward, hand outstretched with her palm facing upwards. He takes hold of her hand gently and uses the other to place something into it. “There are many things I can do but none will ever erase the hurt I have caused you. I only wish to give you what you deserve, a reminder of your strength, Sansa. You are the Queen of the North and the Lady of Winterfell, born to the first men. I hope this reminds you of that.” 

Sansa doesn’t say anything but pulls her hand back. In it, she sees a small link metal chain, elegant in its simplicity, and attached to it an oval plate with a rearing direwolf carved into its body. She has received many things from when she had simply been Sansa Stark to now as Queen of the North. They have been extravagant things, golden things, rubies, gems, furs but they were _things_. This is… This feels like a token. 

“I can’t just forgive you,” she says but it is more a whisper. “I won’t.”

Jon takes her hands, the metal of the necklace pressing into her skin. “I don’t expect you to. I only wish… However you feel about me, Sansa, I only wish to remind you that my fealty is always to the North. To you. To House Stark.” 

“You can’t say that,” Sansa says and she is snatching her hands back as if he has burnt her. “You are a Targaryen prince! One day, Queen Daenerys will marry you away to secure an alliance.” 

“Blood be damned,” Jon says with frustration. “I was raised a Stark bastard. Jon Snow is still my name and nothing else.”

“You can’t erase your true parentage, Jon,” Sansa tells him. “You are a dragon and you are heir to the Iron Throne if the queen does not marry and sire an heir. Your place is destined to always be here.” 

“My place is destined to – oh, why must we argue this every time?” Jon pauses, then turns away from her. He moves to the hearth and leans against the wooden frame. “ Some days I wish the world still saw me as a bastard and I still your half-brother and nothing more.” 

It is with a startling realisation that Sansa does not wish this. “You are more than a bastard. You are their hero and you deserve that claim, Jon. A Snow you may be in heart but a Targaryen you must be for the people.” He is what songs and legends are written about Sansa has known that for a long while. She turns too from him and sits on her bed, her hands folded on her lap as she runs her thumb along the length of his necklace. 

“Sansa…” But he is interrupted before he can say anything further.

“Lord Targaryen,” a guard calls with a knock. 

Jon sighs and walks forward to face her. He takes her hand in his and bends a kiss onto her knuckles. “I thank you for allowing me an audience so late in the hour. I pray you sleep well, my queen.” 

Sansa is silent as he leaves her chambers. 


	5. Chapter 5

Arya is not a fool. 

She knows many believe Braavos had stunted her, that emotionally she is not all human and part of her may have died long ago, but she is not dead. She is as alive as the flowers blooming in their long awaited Spring. Arya is merely protecting herself. None in this realm deserve her thoughts let alone her emotions – unless she grants it to them and those that she do grant are few and far in between. Occasionally she allows her sister to see and Jon when they are finally reunited. 

But though she may show little emotion, she is not a fool to see what plagues others around her, especially that of her loved ones. 

Jon’s confession added light to the shadows that surrounded his disappearance. Arya had always stood up for him to Sansa but even she could not blame her sister for her anger. His story however is justified – stupid but justified in his eyes. Jon always was the most honourable man she had ever known. He is too much like Father in that way, and Arya had never really doubted Jon’s honour or his loyalty. She knew he would never leave them if he had any choice in the matter. Jon may be a Targaryen now but he would be the first to die for the Starks if they so call for it. 

But there is something different too, though he may not see it himself. It is not simply dying for the family of his mother – or for the family of the man who raised him as his own. Jon would die for Winterfell to protect Sansa. 

Many moons they had spent together and in that time, she had become his most pressing priority. And Arya suspects that in spite of what Sansa says, he in turn has become hers. 

It is bizarre, Arya cannot deny that. Her sister in blood and her brother in spirit. But after losing so many of her family, of living without knowing if any were still alive, Arya would not mind it. She would not care. If they were happy, alive and well, she would fight any who oppose it. 

Though, it would seem that she would have to fight the two themselves as they are both too blind to see what is right there. Too blind to admit to it. 

“What is it you fiddle with, sister?” Arya asks. 

Sansa blushes. “It’s just a gift,” she mutters before placing the necklace into her gown, hiding it from view. 

Arya smirks. She knows what it is but she takes great pleasure in teasing her beloved sister.

“From who, my friend?” Queen Daenerys asks, looking up from her meal. They are breaking fast in the Queen’s solar, while Lord Tyrion, Jon and the other lords and ladies of court are out in the Great Hall. “A suitor already?”

Sansa blushes even more. “Oh no, your grace! It is nothing quite like that.” 

“I have received many gifts from suitors since my coronation,” Queen Daenerys tells them with a small smirk. “But when you have been married to a Dothraki, a courtly gift pales in comparison.” 

“It is not from a suitor, your grace,” Sansa says with a small shake of her head. “It is a gift from your nephew. I believe it’s out of guilt for being so late to greet us yesterday.” 

Arya notes the knowing smile as the queen laughs softly. “Ah, my nephew. I never knew him to give gifts so freely but then you have known him the longest. Does he give it often?”

“No, your grace,” Arya says and then she’s smiling widely. “He only gives gifts to those he loves best.” 

Sansa is now glaring at her but Arya plays the innocent, a smile firmly on her lips. She is not a stranger to her sister’s displeasure; oftentimes she is the provoker. 

“He certainly loves you dearly, Lady Sansa,” the queen tells them. “A couple moons past, an advisory in my council meeting suggested a proposal – for you to marry a lord of the southron in an effort to secure our alliance. You can imagine your cousin did not take too kindly to such a proposal.” 

“I can imagine Jon would wage a war to prevent such a thing,” Arya says without much tact. 

“And he very nearly did, Lady Arya,” Queen Daenerys laughs. “But in the end, he offered himself to the council. His marriage to a northern lady.” 

Arya stiffens and she looks to her sister who is staring past the queen to the window beyond. She cannot read her thoughts but she can guess. Sansa is not happy. 

“Did the council accept, your grace?” Sansa asks but her words are strained and clipped. 

“They have yet to decide, my friend,” the queen answers. “We are to reconvene after your departure. I suspect they are worried. The last time we approached Jon about a marriage, it did not end as we expected. We can only be thankful both parties were in agreement.” Queen Daenerys laughs then sighs. “Mayhaps pairing Lady Obera with our Jon was too hopeful of a betrothal.” 

“Lady Obera Sand of Dorne?” Sansa asks, her head snapping back to the queen, blue eyes as wide as the moon in its peak. “I did not… I was not made aware of this betrothal.”

“They did not make it that far,” Queen Daenerys says as she studies Sansa with curiosity. “We asked him to court her but Lady Obera did not want to marry for an alliance.” 

“And Jon would…” Sansa murmurs, though it is not to the queen nor to Arya. 

For a second, all is silent in the solar and then Sansa is clearing her plate and looking up with a smile. It is her royal smile. It’s the one Arya notes as primarily used for her duties with the people and the lords and ladies of the North. It means Sansa Stark is gone but Queen Sansa is here. 

“Never us mind the affairs of your nephew,” Sansa says with a slight tilt upwards of her chin. “Shall we discuss what your grace has called me for?” 

Queen Daenerys’ eyes flashed quickly with surprise, the lilacs turning darker for a moment, before she is too clearing her plate. “Yes, we shall. Brin?” A young boy no older than ten and two runs over and quickly begins to clear the solar. Arya moves from the table where she had broken her fast to stand beside Brienne. 

“Will you be alright?” Arya asks. 

“I will watch her, Lady Arya,” Brienne says with a nod.

“Thank you, Brienne.” Arya then turns to look at the others. “I beg your leave, your grace... _sister_.” She bows and retreats from the solar. Politics had never been her area of expertise and if she had to stay all afternoon in this solar to discuss state matters, she might start wishing she were still in Braavos. 

Besides, it has been a long while since she had been in King’s Landing. The last had been for Sansa’s coronation but amidst the feasts, the tourney and everything else in between, Arya hadn’t the chance to explore. She did not care particularly for this city, her memories of it are of a time she wishes to erase from her mind completely. It is only out of curiosity that Arya decides to wander the streets all the way down to Flea’s Bottom. She is not a child anymore, gripping onto Needle and her ‘dance’ lessons for protection; she is far more capable now if anyone were to be daft enough to harm her. 


	6. Chapter 6

Jon has just pulled his tunic off when Sansa comes barging into his chambers unannounced. At first, panic grips him and he lunges for his longsword but as easily as the panic came, he is withdrawing and staring at her with wide eyes and a curious expression. 

“How could you not tell me!” Sansa demands with a look that reminds him all too vividly to tread carefully. 

“Tell you what, your grace?” Jon asks. He does not dare try to guess her emotions. It is in these moments Sansa is most like a wolf and he has learned over time not to anger an already angry wolf. 

“That you were betrothed!” Sansa is still moving towards him and Jon’s pulse races quickly the closer she is to him. He is aggrieved to admit that though her accusations are just and her anger even more so, he is too preoccupied with his level of undress and her proximity. “Is that why you didn’t return? Is that why you left me alone?”

Jon knows better than to lie. “It is partially.” 

Sansa does not hide her hurt this time and Jon regrets his words almost immediately. He knows better than to lie to her but he wishes still to shield her from the pain, especially of his own doing.

“Did you simply –” Sansa pauses and inhales deeply to regain control of her breathing. She takes another step closer, forcing his eyes to her own, daring him to look away. “Did you simply not care, Jon?” 

The question knocks him off-guard. The idea that he could not care about her when all he has ever done is try to keep her safe and her reputation unscathed by the vile gossip of this city, and so it is him now that steps forward towards her. He reaches for her hand but stops short and leaves them by his side instead. 

“It pains me in a way I can never hope to explain that my actions have caused you to question my intentions,” Jon says with a measure of calm he does not feel but the words are easy and true on his lips. “But your well-being has always been on my mind.” 

Sansa remains unbelieving and she merely stares, though she no longer moves towards him. For a moment, neither says anything and then she is stepping away from him altogether towards the round table. There in its centre is a glass of wine. She pours herself a drink and sips quietly. 

“Your words and your actions contradict you, Lord Targaryen,” she says finally. “The man I knew acted on his words but mayhaps King’s Landing has changed you. I would not blame you for it. It had changed me.” 

Irritation creases the lines between his brow and Jon moves towards her. This time he does not hesitate to reach for her hand and he pulls her gently to face him. To his quiet surprise she allows him and perhaps emboldened by her permission, he places her hand over his bare chest. “I am still me, Sansa,” he says, his voice low and steady. “My heart still beats for the North.” 

Sansa purses her lips but she doesn’t pull away, so he continues. 

“Every day I am trapped in this gods-forsaken city, I dream only of the North, of _home_.” He wishes to say more but there are words he has yet to ever give voice to. “If I had the choice, the first thing I would have done upon waking was to come find you. I promised I’d return and I regret it every day I broke that promise.” 

“I still don’t understand why you couldn’t, Jon,” Sansa says and his name on her lips blossoms a hope in him he had kept himself from believing in for a long time. She steps forward and places her other hand on top of his. “Make me understand.” 

So Jon sits and she follows his actions, dropping his hand. He pours himself a glass and recounts the tale he had told Arya only the day previous. Unlike her sister, Sansa is unreadable. She listens and makes no noise of surprise or disdain and it is not until he has finished that she even acknowledges he has said anything at all.

Sansa drains the last dregs of her wine and peers at him from across the table. It is not too large that he could not reach for her if he wanted but he dares not to. 

“You are an idiot, Jon,” Sansa breathes out and she rubs her temples for a moment. “Truly.” 

Jon opens his mouth to say something but she has him silenced with one look.

“How long have you known me?” she demands. 

“All of my life,” Jon answers, though he is unsure of why she is asking. 

“And how long did we spend in each other’s company since the Eyrie?” she continues to ask in that clipped way of hers that makes him feel as if he were a mere boy being reprimanded for a naughty deed. 

“Nearly a full name’s day,” Jon answers again. 

“You knew me as a fanciful child with songs and southron knights in my head and you knew me as the woman I am now, would you not agree there is much difference between the two?” she asks. 

“Yes,” Jon says and then adds, “And no… There is still a part of you that dreams and believes in the good of the world. It is the part that makes you a beloved queen.” 

Sansa falters for a moment as she stares at him, but then as quickly as her mask had fallen, she is looking away again. “I am not that girl anymore, Jon. And I do not heed the gossip of the court. I do not care for my reputation so long as my family and my people are safe. I thought – I had hoped you knew me better than that, than most.”

“Then you should know also that you may not care but I do,” Jon says with a sigh. “I couldn’t let them doubt your claim to throne. You deserve to be Queen of the North and I… I owed Dany my fealty. I couldn’t dishonour her when she could easily take up her dragons and threaten your claim.” 

“And what of you, Jon?” she suddenly asks. 

“What of me?” 

“What of _you_? You would have married Obera Sand?” Sansa asks. 

“If it was asked of me,” Jon answers truthfully. He sees no point in lying now. 

Sansa growls with anger and then stands up, the force pushing the chair back till it falls over. “And now you stay here for… for what? Are you happy?” 

This question is the second to strike him off-guard but he shrugs off his discomfort. “You and Arya are safe and well. The North is in good hands. That makes me happy.” 

Mayhaps the wine had made her careless or theirs is a dance too long in its movements but Sansa’s confession has him in pains. “I’m not happy.”

“Sansa…” 

“No, Jon!” she says and unshed tears light up in her clear blue eyes, the eyes that haunt him every night. “How can I be when you are so far from me? You promised to keep me safe but yet you’re here.” 

“Don’t you see?” Jon is standing now too and his chest heaves with the breathless frustration that ravages inside him. “I am keeping you safe! By gods, I am trying, Sansa. To protect you and Arya and Winterfell.”

“We do not need your protection,” Sansa says and now she is in front of him, her hands cradling his face and tilting him down to look at her. “We need you home.”

_They are four days march from Winterfell where they will face the Bolton’s army. The men are sombre by the fireside. Ramsay Bolton’s reputation is one that has spread as quickly as wildfire through the lands and into the nightmares of their men. Sansa is not unaffected; she too dreams of the mad dog’s notorious bite and worries greatly for the fate of her people, many of whom rallied to their cause once they knew the trueborn daughter of Eddard and Catelyn Stark was truly well and alive. She cannot help feeling that is a slight on Jon’s parentage. Somehow news of his Targaryen blood had made its way around the North and many had wondered whether they should rally behind a man not even the bastard of their once Warden of the North. She tried to tell them that Targaryen blood or not, he is still half Stark but Jon told her perhaps it better if they rallied behind her. She is the true daughter and the rightful heir. Jon said he will not have it any other way. She hates him for it. He is too honourable, and not for the first time, she does not believe she deserves someone as good as he in her life. Sansa wants to tell him as much but she can never find the words._

_Still, she steals into his tent tonight, the habit all too familiar for her and for the men in their camp. Sansa can hear their whispers but she does not heed them._

_“I did not think you would come,” Jon says quietly into the night. Ghost pads up to her and nudges her hand with a wet nose._

_“Why not?” Sansa asks but she does not move towards him. She remains by the entrance with Ghost’s fur thick in between her fingers._

_“You’re angry with me,” Jon says after a moment. He is sitting on the cot and she can feel his eyes on her though the darkness hides his face._

_“I am.” Sansa doesn’t lie to Jon. She doesn’t think she can. Since their reunion in the Eyrie, they are all each other has and they are always honest with one another because of it, even if the truth hurts._

_She stills her hand and Ghost licks it before leaving the tent, likely on his nightly hunt, but she thinks he also senses he is intruding. “You should not have declared me the heir.”_

_“But it’s true.”_

_“Jon,” Sansa exhales in frustration. “I have done nothing to deserve such a title. You have fought with these men, you are the one they look to in these dark times. You are the true heir of the North.”_

_“I am not a Stark,” Jon says with quiet acceptance._

_He had been unwilling for several moons to admit to his true parentage, insisting he will always be a Snow, a Stark bastard, but it has grown on him. Stories of his mother, of Aunt Lyanna, had quelled his concerns of being a Targaryen. He admits to her one night that if his mother could love Rhaeger Targaryen as some suggest she did then he could learn to be a Targaryen. Sansa is happy for him. She knows how his eyes shine when her Aunt Lyanna is brought up in conversation and how he seems to trust a woman he has never met, but Sansa understands. Where she had Catelyn Stark to run to in times of childhood distress, Jon had none. It pains her in the most agonising of ways that she had not shown him the love he deserved when they were both children but Sansa is determined to show him now in her counsel, her loyalty, her companionship – in any way she can._

_But she is still angry with him and she will not yield._

_“You are half Stark,” Sansa says defiantly._

_Jon smiles and he strides forward towards her before she can say anything further. He places a hand to her cheek and she instinctively leans into his palm. “I am a Targaryen,” he says, and there in the blackness of night she sees his eyes change to violet and she knows suddenly that he is saying something she is not listening to. Her breath hitches and Sansa does not move. She doesn’t need to because Jon is moving towards her, his head angled in a way that makes her heart beat faster in anticipation._

_“Jon,” she whispers his name simply to say something and half in a need she did not know she felt._

_When Sansa had been just a child, she had dreamed of white knights and the pretty poems they would sing to her of her beauty and charm. She would dream of their kisses, soft and quick and under a myriad of stars dancing to their love. In time, Sansa had found kisses to be much less a token of love and more of a prize to be claimed. Bruised lips punctuated her past, of men who took too many liberties, of men who sought to possess her. She would dream in their wake of snow so white it was blinding, so cold she could feel it in her bones. She dreamed of wolves and laughter and she would escape from the realities of her shackles through them._

_Jon’s lips are different the moment they touch her. Like fire, they scorch her, melting the ice in her veins and boiling a heat inside her that had Sansa curling her hands around his neck, desperate to have him closer. He is not soft and quick like the knights of her childhood. There are no stars above them. There is only Jon and somehow Sansa thinks it is even better. His lips moves hungrily against her own, his fingers tangling in her hair, tilting her head up towards him so he can deepen their kiss. She feels a moan in the back of her throat as Jon’s lips leave hers only to be placed on the hollow of her neck._

_“I am so sorry, Sansa,” he murmurs, though he does not move away and his breath ghosts along her bare neck, causing a shiver to run down her spine. “I should not have…”_

_Sansa does not reply immediately. Her mind is spinning far too quickly for her to focus on anything else but Jon must take that as a rejection as his hands leave her and he is moving back. His eyes are downcast when he turns away, stalking further into the tent._

_“You are not allowed to apologise,” Sansa says after she has regained some control. She walks over to him and pulls at his hand so he comes to sit on the bed with her. “I don’t accept it.”_

_“Sansa, it isn’t right,” Jon says, always so serious, always so solemn._

_“Why?” Sansa asks quietly, blue eyes defying him once more. It seems a way of theirs. He retreats, bound to his duty and honour, and Sansa stalks after him, pulling him back once more._

_“You are…” he stops short and does not continue._

_“You said it before, Jon,” Sansa tells him. “You are a Targaryen and I am a Stark… and maybe I’m finally accepting that.”_

_Jon looks up then and something sparks in his eyes that makes her laugh. “What?”_

_“You look as if you were still a child and Old Nan has slipped you a piece of cake,” Sansa says and she is smiling widely._

_“Are you saying you are my treat, Sansa Stark?” he asks and his eyes are darkening once more and Sansa squirms in her seat but not from displeasure._

The memory is so old but Jon swears he can still feel her lips on his own. As he looks into her eyes now, her hands still holding his face, he wonders if they are as soft as he remembers. He does not wish to offend her by acting too rash and taking liberties where he shouldn’t. They are no longer the Jon and Sansa of that past; they are no longer in the throes of war, of tender moments spent in hushed silence as the threat of death looms so close. Here in the Spring, the reality of kissing her is much different. She is the Queen of the North and he may no longer be a bastard but he is not worthy of her. 

He never was. 

“You are doing it again,” she says, though her voice is barely above a whisper.

“Doing what?” he asks. 

“You are thinking of my honour,” Sansa says, her blue eyes flashing with irritation. “You are thinking how you must not act because it may dishonour me.” Her hands slide from his face till her thumb is placed just along his jaw, moving slowly back and forth across the hair that grows there. “I want you to stop thinking, Jon. I want you to do what it is you wish to do most right now. If it is to walk away, I will let you. If it is to -” 

Jon hears her gasp as his lips find their way to hers. His hands curl around her waist and he pulls her tightly to him till he can feel the curve of her breasts against his bare chest. Suddenly there is too much fabric between them and he wants to rip her gown from her body, stripping her bare so he can taste every inch of her skin. Jon makes do with trailing kisses along her neck till he finds that hollow that he knows so well and he nips at the sensitive skin there till he can hear her whimper in pleasure. It is a sound that drives him crazy, a sound that brings out the wolf in him and it takes all of his control not to do as he truly wishes. 

“Gods, Sansa, you smell so good,” he murmurs against her and he can feel her laugh in response, the slow vibration bringing terrible thoughts to his mind. “I have missed you so.” 

“Tell me,” she says.

“What?” 

“Tell me, Jon,” she says again and now she’s dragging her nails down his back and bringing her lips back to his. “Please.” 

Jon does not need to be asked twice and he places his hands under her thighs so he can pick her up and place her on the table. He moves in between her legs, feeling them wrap around him, as he cups the back of her neck gently. Her eyes shine up at him and it takes his breath away how beautiful she is. Jon doesn’t think there is a woman nearly half her beauty or even half her heart.

“I miss you when I wake in the morning, when there is not even the whisper of your presence in my bed, when I go riding and I don’t hear your laughter in the winds. I miss you when the sun is falling and the stars are in the sky but you aren’t there to see them with me.” He kisses her gently and leans his forehead to hers. “I miss you most when the nights are the coldest and I wish to the old Gods and the new that I can hold you in my arms as the snow falls outside.” 

“Oh Jon,” Sansa sighs and he leans back to watch as the tears fall gently down her fair skin. “I have missed you so it hurts my every waking hour to not be by your side.” She laughs and kisses him with such intent and force he has to steady himself from being pushed back. “We are idiots.” 

“I’m the idiot,” Jon tells her. 

“Yes, but as am I,” she says with a smile. “I’m afraid I’ve let my pride get the best of me. Could you ever forgive me, Jon?” 

He laughs. “If you do something for me.”

“What is it?” Sansa asks and she is looking at him warily. 

“Marry me.” 


End file.
